


Prometheus Fallen, but Not Forgotten

by lexterminate



Series: Prometheus Fallen [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Memoir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-15 13:53:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9237872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexterminate/pseuds/lexterminate
Summary: John Murphy Memoir, inspired by the book of john by blueparacosm (I was going to add this as an official inspiration, but ao3 wouldn't save it).





	1. Thnesko

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueparacosm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thnesko - Mortal

When Murphy died, he bled ichor, the blood of the gods and immortals, but he wasn't an immortal. He was only human, a boy. He just wasn't supposed to die — not yet.

The rivers of gold streaked down his face, his ocean eyes gone flat and glassy, no longer burning with the fire that turned cities to ash. His lips pale and cold, his breath still, his body empty of any sign of the life that once was before.

John Murphy was a work of art, skin like pale ivory; a living marble statue. Bellamy could see the subtle cracks, places where he was marred by survival. There was a unique beauty in the curve of his lips, the sharp slant of his cheeks and jaw, the taut pull of his lithe musculature, and most of all his eyes: clear, bright and holy, but they burned with violence and rage and power, or at least they did. He did. 

The world was quiet when Murphy died. There was no war, no battles, no brutality, but there was so much blood soaking into the bone dry dirt and only just enough tears. The Earth needed a sacrifice, a death to bring about life. It wasn't like Murphy to be that person, to give of himself for people who didn't give for him, but today was a different day.

His throat was slit, slashed open, symbolic of a time that had passed — the first time John Murphy survived. The blood bubbled and squirted; he fell. Bellamy was on his knees beside him as the blood pooled beneath them, touching the wound with trembling fingers, wet with gold. They would survive now, but Murphy never would again.

He held Murphy's hand, fingertips pressing against his pulse point as he felt the last remnants of Murphy's life slip away. His heart was an ancient relic, forged in flames and fueled by anger, encased in steel. It was not as invulnerable as he had hoped; every stone had dents worn into it by time spent weathering the storm and Murphy is scarred in places that people couldn't see. He wouldn't let them see. 

John was timeless. He was a legend, a myth. The boy who survived until he didn't. Until he chose his own time to go. Until he had something or someone worth dying for. And maybe he did or maybe it wasn’t worth surviving anymore, but Bellamy would never believe that.  

Bellamy knew that Murphy saw himself as fallen; Lucifer reincarnate, unworthy of forgiveness because that was who he was. His choices were his own and the blood on his hands was taken with conviction, but Bellamy also knew that Murphy had suffered: had been tortured and hurt and betrayed by the world. He knew that Murphy deserved better, deserved redemption, but he was given death.

Bellamy cried. He held the broken body of Murphy in his arms and leaned over him, pressing his lips, wet and warm, on Murphy's cold, dry, dead ones. He wished he could still feel a spark, but there was nothing, only the bitter salty taste of his own tears.

He never told Murphy that he belonged, that he was important, or that he was loved, but he thought (no, he hoped) that maybe Murphy knew and that was why he chose to die.

That wasn't how it should have happened though. It’s not the way the story was supposed to go, because it should have been Bellamy and not Murphy who was sacrificed and given to the Earth, but the Earth wanted someone who defied death, who was cast out and who lived in spite of it. 

Bellamy dug Murphy’s grave with his hands, felt the dirt between his fingers and fought the urge to start crying again. His heart hurt. He laid the boy in his grave, touched his hair, his face, shut his eyes — still bright but impossibly empty. The fire in them snuffed out leaving a pale placid ocean, vast and endless, but distant and dead. 

Murphy really was art: he was tragedy written by the ancient Greeks; he was the Renaissance in all of it’s glory.

Bellamy loved him and lost him because that is always how the story goes.

And he would miss him. Forever.


	2. Aionois

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aionois - Eternal 
> 
> I'm sorry.

John Murphy's life was never something he chose. He had life thrust upon him, the consummate survivor. Whether that was luck or force of will, he really didn't know, but it wasn't choice.

Not that he wanted to die either, because he didn't. He wanted the choice and he wanted a reason to live or die, it didn't really matter which.

But then there was Bellamy and the war with the Grounders, there were nuclear power plants failing and six months to live. There was no hope for survival, but they'd go down fighting. They always did.

And Murphy was in love, a secret he'd take to his grave.

Bellamy Blake was built like the god of light, but he fought like the god of war. His conviction was iron and steel. Whatever the man was fighting for, he believed in it with everything he had, which is something Murphy had always lacked.

He didn't believe in anything because he didn't belong anywhere. He didn't have anyone he could count on, only himself and that was never enough.

Murphy was suddenly finding though that he believed in Bellamy, trusted Bellamy, loved Bellamy... because Bellamy was going to be the one that saved them and helped them survive. His devotion to his people was absolute and Murphy was in awe of his strength. Bellamy was a leader, a general, a hero who guided his people with ease through every trial and tribulation of Earth.

That was never Murphy; he couldn't do that because to be honest, no one liked him and they definitely didn't respect him. They had even tried to kill him, but the absolute truth was that Murphy didn't want to lead his people because they weren't his people to lead. He wasn't one of them and he never had been.

Murphy wasn't a martyr. He wasn't saving anyone's life by dying, except for the only one that mattered. If he saved Bellamy, they would all survive.

Bellamy was the real hero; Murphy was just a catalyst. Up until that point, Murphy's life had been meaningless. He had never had a real purpose, but by doing this he could have that and it would be worth it.

He had survived long enough.

The truth of the matter was that dying was easy, living was hard. Murphy's death would put the wheels of survival in motion, but it would be up to Bellamy to keep them turning and Murphy knew he would. He always did.

Murphy knelt, his face placid as he waited for the knife that would end his life. Bellamy was to be his executioner and he felt the hand grip his scalp to hold him in place. Murphy closed his eyes, the steel blade was cold against is skin and he waited.

"You don't have to do this," Bellamy said to him, not looking at him, dropping the hand from Murphy’s throat.

"Yes, I do and so do you,” Murphy stated, opening his eyes.He frowned at Bellamy.

"Do I really have to slash open your throat?" He asked, lifting up the knife, but not putting it to Murphy’s throat. He stared at the object in his hand and thought about the awful violence that it was made for, the awful violence he was about to commit. He didn’t want to do this.

"Only if you want this to work... it has to be you killing me, Bell. Just like before when you hung me. That's how this goes. It’s ritual,” Murphy explained. The anticipation was heavy in the air. He knew Bellamy was having doubts about killing him, but he also knew that it was something Bellamy had to do. What he didn’t know was how long it would take the older man to feel ready to take his life.

"We can find another way,” Bellamy tried.

"There's no time,” Murphy countered. It could go back and forth like this for awhile.

"Let's think about this,” Bellamy told him. “There has to be another way.” 

"Bellamy, I'm ready... this is how we survive,” He said. It was simple, really.

"It's not how you survive,” Bellamy had a point there. Murphy had always been about survival above everything else and not so much everyone else’s, but his own. Today changed that. It changed him.

"I know, but maybe this is better. It's not like anyone's going to miss me..." Murphy admitted, letting the sentence trail off. He didn’t have friends or family, he didn’t have someone who loved him. Murphy was always alone and so dying was just dying. He wasn’t leaving behind a lover or a parent or sibling, he was just leaving. That was it. 

"I will,” Bellamy said. It was the truth.

"No, you won’t,” Murphy shook his head. “Not really....but thanks" He smiled at Bellamy. A real, genuine heartbreaking smile and Bellamy couldn’t do it.

"Murphy, please…” He begged. “We’ll figure something else out.”

“Let's just do this, Bell, get it over with,“ Murphy was getting exasperated and to be honest, he was starting to feel less ready than before, starting to question his brilliant decision-making skills. 

“I can’t,” Bellamy told him.

“You’re not hurting me,” Murphy lied. This was going to hurt, but only for a second, then it would be over. “You’re setting me free,“ He promised.

“I won’t,” Bellamy said, his voice quiet. He squeezed the handle of the knife in his fist. There were tears uncried, reflecting the light in his eyes.

Murphy just waited, staring Bellamy down. The tears in his own eyes were just beginning to fall. 

“May we meet again, Bell—“ He started to say, but then the knife sunk into the skin of his neck, piercing his jugular and slicing across his throat.

“May we meet again, John Murphy,” Bellamy whispered in Murphy’s ear; he caught the boy from falling and guided him to the ground, sinking down onto his knees beside him.

___

There was golden blood on his hands and he didn’t know what was next. He would bury Murphy as a sacrifice, let the Earth take him and use him as it needed. He would move on, survive, live because it’s what Murphy would have wanted, but he would never forget what he lost:

The boy with the wicked grin and the ocean eyes on fire. 

The boy who was art and history and tragedy.

The boy he loved and killed.

The boy named John Murphy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, cookies, probably hate mail, whatever the hell you want. Let me know. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr: murphysurvived
> 
> (i'm beginning to think my tumblr url defeats the purpose of this fic)


	3. Sebomai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy worships what's left of Murphy.

Bellamy was haunted; not by a ghost or a spirit, but by a presence, a feeling, a need. Murphy was in his head, in his heart, in his bones and Bellamy ached for him. He missed Murphy's smile, his eyes, his voice. 

Bellamy spent a lot of time at Murphy's grave, probably too much time. It was quiet and nothing like being around a living, breathing Murphy, but it was all he had.

They had never really talked much before, but now Bellamy couldn't help himself. He told Murphy everything he never had a chance to say, read him stories, laughed— cried.

"We did it, you know. YOU did it. We're surviving, thriving, living because…” Bellamy couldn’t finish that sentence. Instead, he said, “I just wish you were here to see it." He touched the stone that marked Murphy’s final resting place, traced a cross on it with his finger. “I miss you”

Murphy’s death gnawed holes in him.

He still remembered the blood painting his hands gold and saw the way Murphy's eyes went flat, the flame in them extinguished. He still felt how easily the knife had slid into his skin. It was more than a memory and more like something that lived with him constantly, as familiar as the steady beat of his heart.

He couldn’t shake it; his guilt devoured him even though it had been necessary. Murphy had begged him to do it, so he did. Now, he lived with demons and shadows, but Murphy was still his savior, his light that he clung to in the darkest night.

In every nightmare he had, Murphy’s throat was slashed with golden blood painting his skin, silently screaming in pain while Bellamy still held the knife. He couldn’t forget it.

Murphy’s sacrifice had been a gift to Skai Kru, had made him holy. Bellamy treated him like a god to be worshiped. Truly, he believed it was what Murphy deserved after everything that had been done to him, everything that Bellamy had done to him.

So Bellamy prayed, he talked, he spilled his soul to his dead friend unsure of what he was missing, what he wanted and hoped for. He knew he wasn’t going to hear Murphy talk back to him, but going through the motions made it better. If he kept Murphy’s memory alive, then he didn’t die for nothing and it was okay, but it wasn’t enough.

Bellamy felt empty when he should be happy. He couldn’t separate his happiness from what he had lost—

J.M.

The knife he had used to slash Murphy’s throat had been the younger boy’s own knife; the one made of metal from the dropship that had also killed Wells Jaha.

It was the only item of Murphy’s that Bellamy had and it had been the weapon that had killed him. Looking at it made Bellamy feel like he’d been stabbed in the gut by the same knife. It still had little flecks of golden blood staining it.

He couldn’t get rid it, but he couldn’t touch it. It hurt too much.

What he needed, he couldn’t have. He needed Murphy, but the boy was gone. He just needed a piece of him though, something to hold on to.

A memory of something good.

_“Don’t worry, Bellamy, I won’t drop you.”_

He could almost hear it; Murphy’s word’s on the cliff’s edge, the scarlet seatbelt wrapped around his hands. Murphy had saved his life that day. It was the first time Bellamy had really seen him and not the monster everyone thought he was.

He had proved himself again and again. Bellamy should have seen him sooner. The dropship still had the red seatbelts and Bellamy needed one, to remember Murphy and the good he did.

He wrapped it around his wrist, a constant reminder of Murphy’s life and not his death.

John Murphy.

The boy he loved had lived and he was remembered.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebomai = worship (devotion)
> 
> Comments, Kudos, Cookies, whatever the hell you want are all appreciated. 
> 
> find me on tumblr: murphysurvived


	4. Anastasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anastasis - Ressurection
> 
> That last installment. I refuse to write more of this. I'm still sorry.

Every day had become a ritual in which Bellamy woke up and prayed. He thanked Murphy for his sacrifice and he remembered what was good about him. Murphy had done a lot of wrong in his life, but they all had and he deserved to be remembered for what he did right.

The rest of the camp had forgotten. They moved through their days without a thought for their fallen friend. Yes, they had lost so many friends and yes, Murphy was not exactly friendly, but he was the reason they were still here, still breathing. Bellamy didn't think it was fair to Murphy that they didn't remember him.

It wouldn't matter to Murphy, he was dead and he hated most of them, but it didn't change what had happened, what he had done for them.

Bellamy wanted to build a memorial for Murphy in Arkadia, so everyone would have to remember who they lost and what they did to him.

Murphy survived. He overcame; he was better at it than all of them. When it came to his own death, he chose it because it was necessary and it was the right thing to do.He understood that sometimes you sacrifice the few to save the many, and this time it was worth his life when before it never had been. They owed him this, a memory of his life; to be remembered and not forgotten.

Bellamy had a length of rope and there was a tree just off-center in the middle of Arkadia, a huge branch jutting out from it's solid frame. He tied a noose; it wasn't his first mistake or even his worst mistake, but it hurt the most because Murphy had been innocent and they had torn that away from him. They made him a monster.

Murphy had been awful, he had been mean and cruel, but he wasn’t a murderer until they made him one. Bellamy knew that and still to appease a crowd of unrestrained teenagers, he had agreed to take the life of someone who had begged him to wait, to stop.

_“I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me.”_

He hadn’t cared, not in that moment. He had had the power and control; he had wanted to keep it. It wasn’t about Murphy and his life, it was about Bellamy and his own. He hated himself for that, but that’s why they had to remember.

He hung the noose from the tree branch, a reminder, a memory, a life now gone. Murphy had survived that day when he shouldn’t have and now he didn’t.

On the tree, with Murphy’s knife, Bellamy carved his name.

John Murphy

And under it he added something else:

Survivor 

Because that’s who Murphy was and who he would be in their memories. They would survive when he couldn’t because of him. This was how they would say thank you.

Bellamy had finally done enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anastasis = Ressurection
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone. Kudos, Comments, Cookies, and Death Threats are all welcome and appreciated. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr: murphysurvived

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thnesko = Mortal, Aionois = Eternal
> 
> Hope you liked!! Thanks for the inspiration, blueparacosm. Comment, Kudos, Cookies, whatever the hell you want. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr: murphysurvived


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